


A Study In Interesting

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Lestrade, BAMF Molly, BAMF Sally, BAMF Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hints of child neglect, Hurt/Comfort, Kidlock, Kidnapping, Teenlock, hitting of children, mentions of children being sold into slavery, really just bamf all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought that being kidnapped would be interesting.</p><p>Being beaten and locked in the freezer of an old Chinese restaurant with four other teenagers changes his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Interesting

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this about two months ago and kept picking away at it, until finally tonight I was like "fuck it" and just finished it - it's been a shit week and this was my early birthday present to myself, I guess.

The woman is approximately twenty-four years old. She has two cats but prefers dogs, is uncomfortable in the suit she has chosen to wear, and desperately needs a nicotine fix - preferably a cigarette but, having been trying to unsuccessfully quit for the past three years, she'll settle for a patch. She has recently broke up with her boyfriend and been fired from her job. Her claim that she works for Mycroft Holmes is entirely false; she is unemployed and trying to make ends meet through whatever means necessary, legal or not.

Sherlock stares at her silently.

"Your brother sent us to pick you up, Mr Holmes," she repeats after about thirty seconds of awkward silence. "So could you -" And she makes an aborted gesture towards the car idling behind her.

Very deliberately, he sets down the body of the dead sparrow. Her eyes go to the corpse immediately and she pales, her body language making it blatantly obvious that she is having second thoughts about the intelligence of this endeavour. Too late now. Sherlock stands up without a word and walks by her, over to the car. The interior is black and has been recently cleaned. She crowds behind him as he climbs in, making sure that he can't change his mind at the last minute and try to escape. 

As though he would.

At least being kidnapped is _interesting_.

They take him to a small building in the middle of god knows where. It's a good three hour trip. Sherlock spends it deducing everything there is to know about the woman and the driver while ignoring her half-hearted attempts to induce conversation. The building has not been empty for long, and the sign outside still proclaims it as a Chinese restaurant. Though not a very good one, judging by the door handle. 

"I've got him," the woman says as soon as they walk in.

"Any trouble? Were you followed?" The speaker is a man, tall and husky, dark. He looks Sherlock and grins, a flash of white teeth.

"No. He was surprisingly polite."

"Disinterested," Sherlock corrects, looking around in a bored way. 

"What?"

"You don't work for my brother. You were fired for stealing secrets and doing a remarkably poor job of it," he says, turning to face her. The look of shock on her face makes him smirk. "Now you want money and revenge. Pity you've chosen me as a way to do it. I have to tell you that I doubt my brother will be willing to pay very much for me. You'd have been better off taking someone that actually mattered to the government." He looks back at the man. "And you, you're in your thirties, recently widowed. You also lost a son - no, a daughter. You've got some convoluted theory about how if you can't have your child, no one should - _oh_." Surprise causes him to trail off and he blinks.

In the split second that his eyes are shut, the man moves and backhands him hard. Sherlock's head whips around and his neck muscles spasm in pain. A slow bloom of heat flushes the skin of his cheek. "What the fuck did you tell him?" the man hisses at the woman, who recoils.

"Nothing, Jack, I didn't - I didn't tell him anything. The little bastard's a Holmes, isn't he? Stands to reason he'd be as much of a freak as his brother." She holds her hands up defensively.

"Put him with the others," Jack orders. "I'll get the call ready to go. Now that we've got enough, they'll be here to pick up the lot of them within a handful of hours." He turns away, swearing.

The woman takes Sherlock by the arm and marches him through the restaurant, back into the kitchen, and over to the freezer. When she opens the door, there is a telling lack of cold air that suggests the power is not on. There is light, though, from an old lantern. It allows Sherlock to see that he is not alone as a solidly placed hand in the back of his shoulders propels him inside. He stumbles and only just manages to catch his balance as the door is slammed shut behind him, the heavy lock catching in place.

For about a minute, there is silence.

"Hel, you must've upset one of them." Movement to his left and then a short, stocky blond is standing in front of Sherlock. A gentle hand catches Sherlock's chin and tilts his face into the light for better study. "If my ma were here, she'd say we should put ice on your face."

"Fortunate we're in a freezer, then," says Sherlock.

The blond actually giggles. "Too right, only there's no ice to be found."

"And lucky that, or we'd have frozen to death," says the only other boy. He's got brown eyes and a bruise on his chin that suggests he has not avoided angering their captors, either. "It's not like they'd care."

"I'm John," says the blond. He has a friendly smile. He drops his hand from Sherlock's face and adds, "That's Greg and Molly." He nods towards a petite redhead with a tear-streaked face. She's sitting right beside Greg, tucked up close. Greg doesn't seem to mind. "And Sally."

Sally nods once, curtly. She doesn't say anything, but then she doesn't have to. Sherlock can deduce most of what he needs to know. This is not the ordinary kidnapping that he suspected it would be. Oh yes, they want money or secrets from his brother. That's a given. But they also kidnap ordinary children, kids whose parents could not afford to pay enough to make it worth their while. So not for ransom, then, but for something far more illegal and sinister judging by Jack's comment. For the first time, he feels something cold settle into the pit of his belly. 

"I've been here for two days," John says. "Greg -"

"Approximately eighteen hours," Sherlock fills in. "Molly, only two. Sally has been here for at least eight."

John stares at him. "How did you know?"

"Molly has a grass stain on her skirt that is still fresh enough to indicate she was outside not long ago. The bruising on Greg's chin is at least that old, and judging by the imprint of a man's ring on his cheek that matches the ring Jack was wearing the conclusion was obvious. You were here first, or you would've begun with Greg, so that's that."

"That's amazing." John looks impressed. "And Sally?"

"Her photo was on the telly at lunch," Sherlock admits, and Sally makes a quick, choked off sound. Her face is composed again when Sherlock glances at her. 

"They're going to sell us," Molly says, her voice high and terrified. She doesn't look older than ten, making her the youngest. "I heard them t-talking about it while they were bringing me here. They're going to sell us so that people can do awful things to us."

"It's alright, Molly," John tells her. "Don't cry."

"I c-can't h-help it," she whimpers.

Greg squeezes her shoulder and rubs it hard, but he doesn't offer her any consolations. His face has a resigned air to it that says he knows their chances of escape are pitifully small. He's about fifteen, Sherlock estimates, the oldest. He would've fought and so would John, so possibly they were drugged or threatened - likely drugged. Impossible to tell and he suspects that now is not the time to ask. It seems that some of Mycroft's annoying lessons about tact have sunk in after all.

John sits back down on the floor and Sherlock takes the chance to look around. The freezer is large for a Chinese restaurant, but still small with all five of them trapped inside. Sally is curled up in the right corner furthest from the door, with Greg and Molly on the other side. There is a shelf in between Sally and Greg and Molly, and it looks like the owners didn't bother to take anything off when they cleared out. It is covered with old food - probably rotting by now - but nothing helpful. John is leaning against the left wall, and that leaves Sherlock standing in the middle. Were he to stretch out both hands, he could almost touch both walls at the same time. Anyone opening the door would hit someone on the right.

He chooses to sit next to John.

They sit in silence for a long time. No one seems to feel the need to speak. If it weren't for the whole being sold off aspect, Sherlock might actually find it nice. It is rare to find others his age who don't feel the need to fill silence with mindless chatter about television shows and movies and boys or girls. Except for the occasional sniffle from Molly and the way Sally keeps fidgeting and scraping her boots on the ground, there is no sound.

Then Sherlock hears footsteps and hands scratching at the door. It opens to reveal the woman. "Come on, Holmes," she snaps. "Let's go."

He stares at her, considering the probability of escape if he were to attack. She is physically on the small side, slender, and the way she shifts her weight indicates that she has a slight weakness in her left leg - the ankle, he judges, a leftover from a childhood accident. A solid kick would severely impair her and he figures he could take her down without too much difficulty. But he does not know what is beyond her, whether the only obstacle would be Jack or if there is something more substantial lying in wait: more guards, perhaps, or even just one or two who are better equipped. 

Fingers catch his wrist, strong, and squeeze, hidden by their bodies. John. Is he trying to stop Sherlock from following her or suggesting that he play along? Has he guessed what Sherlock is contemplating?

Impossible to tell without more data and Sherlock does not look at him. He stands up with muscles made stiff from the long wait and moves to the door, slipping past. She shuts it behind them, locking it, and grips him by the upper arm. Instead of going back through the kitchen, they go in the opposite direction to where the manager's office is. Jack is waiting for them with another woman. She's got a gun but it's holstered on her hip. Her arms are casually folded and she's leaning against the wall, clearly unconcerned.

"Come here," Jack orders, standing up. "Sit him down, Elle."

There is a video camera and Sherlock is seated in front of it. Jack pulls a mask over his face and flicks it on as Elle goes to sit down in front of a laptop. He waits until she gives a nod and then he punches Sherlock in the face. It doesn't come as a total surprise, Sherlock notices the subtle bunching of his muscles before he moves, but it still hurts. He reels backwards and is unprepared for the second blow, a solid left hook directly into his midsection, followed by a third and fourth against his lower ribs. He scrabbles for a hold on the chair to keep from falling and tries to catch his breath.

"Done," Elle says, and the light on the camera goes off.

Jack pulls the mask off. His hair is standing straight up. He's smirking. "That'll show Holmes that we're serious. If he doesn't respond soon we'll be having some more fun, you and me."

"You think the buyers will want damaged goods?" says the woman leaning against the wall. She's got an accent, French.

"I think they'll take what we give them for being so bloody late," says Jack. "Every minute we're stuck here baby-sitting is lost revenue."

"They're coming as fast as they can," says Elle defensively. Her cheeks have coloured.

"It's not sodding well fast enough! If it weren't for the deposit I'd be gone by now. They better be by before the sun comes up, or I might lose my patience and burn the lot of them and start over fresh," Jack snaps. He means it. He actually looks excited by the idea. It's clearly more attractive to him than the thought of waiting until the buyers come, no matter how much money he might lose out on.

The position of the moon, just visible through the dust covering the window, tells him that it is shortly after eight. That means they've got roughly ten hours until sunrise. Ten hours to escape. 

"Oh Jack, sweetheart, I'm sure they'll be here," says the other woman. "Why don't you and I go out scouting. Maybe we can find another kid to add to the load."

"I don't know, Annie." Jack tosses the mask on the desk and sneers at Sherlock, hand forming a fist. The fifth punch lands almost exactly where the third one did. Sherlock doubles over, grimacing: the pain is short and sharp, like the time he sliced his palm open to study the healing process of the human body. 

"Enough," Annie tells him, "you kill him and we'll have to get rid of the body."

"Yeah, yeah. Take him back, Elle."

Sherlock gets clumsily to his feet, breathing through the pain, and follows Elle out of the room and back down to the freezer. She stops him outside of the door. Her eyes are narrowed as she looks him over, her lips pressed together in a thin line, before she turns away and reaches for the lock. It is an old-fashioned thing, Sherlock notices. She has to grab the handle and pull hard to the right and it seems to take most of her strength. The lock is rusty and reluctant to move, and it squeals begrudgingly as the latch lets go. 

"Get in," she orders.

Two steps in and the door slams shut, thudding roughly against his back. He staggers and already-familiar hands grip his shoulders, guiding him down against the wall. "God," John says, the word an exhalation as he prods at Sherlock's cheek. The touch is experienced for teenager. 

"You want to be a doctor," Sherlock mumbles, a pained gasp tugged free when John's knee shifts too close and grazes his chest. He does not try to move away, though, subsiding to the examination with a willingness that he doesn't examine too closely.

John pauses briefly. "Yeah, I do," he says at last, pulling at the hem of Sherlock's shirt. His fingers are cold as they pass over Sherlock's chest and midsection. John's forehead develops thin worry lines and he chews on his lower lip. "Don't think anything is broken. I can't really tell, though."

"Oh god," Molly says, sounding a bit hysterical, "they really are going to hurt us."

"Not all of us. Just him. He's special," says Sally. "He's here for a _reason_. Bet he won't be sold."

"Wrong," Sherlock says. He coughs and oh, that hurts. It's a bit like angry sparks lacing through his nerves. John sits down beside him and braces Sherlock with his body, keeping him upright, and Sherlock lets him. "They want money from my brother. Or secrets, but I suspect money is the driving force. I doubt my brother will be willing to pay." It would show a level of affection that is unfathomable to the Holmes family, who pride themselves on being apart from the rest. 

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

"Did you see any way that we could escape?" says Greg. "The only time they came back before you was to push in more kids. They always had a gun, then."

Sherlock thinks about Elle. There had been no sign of a weapon on her. It is possible that frustration is making them lazy, complacent. "As far as I can tell there are three of them. Elle, the one who brought me in, does not carry a gun. Jack has at least one gun and possibly a knife or two. He has the sheaths on both ankles for them. And Annie, she has a gun and she knows how to use it. I haven't seen anyone else. There were no signs of it - I noticed only three water glasses, three sets of utensils and plates, three pairs of shoes at the back door. They don't seem like the type to bother cleaning up." He remembers Jack tossing that mask carelessly on the desk and coughs again, muffling the sound with his fist.

"The question then," John says into the silence, "is whether or not they'll come back again before they plan to move us." He sounds calm, too calm, and his hand around Sherlock's waist is remarkably steady.

"Morning," Sherlock mutters. "If the buyers haven't come, they plan to burn the building down with us still inside."

Greg's "Jesus Christ!" is barely audible over Molly's moans of terror. Even Sally can't stop herself from making a low sound that could be defined as a whimper. Only John seems to be unaffected by this bit of news, and when Sherlock peeks at him he sees that John's face has gone very still. His jaw has tightened and the look he darts at the door, well... the next person who opens it is going to be receiving a fist to the face regardless of whether they've got a gun or not. Sherlock can't decide whether this is stupidity or bravery or some odd, perplexing mixture of both.

"Alright," John says. " _Alright_. Obviously we've got to think of a plan. The next time she comes back, we're going to have to subdue her somehow before she attracts the attention of the others. Sally, maybe you could pretend that something is wrong, or that you've got to go to the bathroom."

Sherlock lets the sound of their voices drift over him, falling into the quiet side of his mind that can plan and _think_. The likelihood of Elle returning for him is high, particularly once Mycroft refuses to give into their demands. Jack is the ringleader, obvious, and Sherlock is willing to bet that he and Annie are indulging in a sexual relationship. That leaves Elle as the man out, the one who gets forgot and bossed about, and he does not know human nature well but he is willing to bet that it is causing friction between them.

Of course, it would be much easier to use brute strength to bring them down. John looks fairly strong, for all that he is short, and so does Greg. Sherlock is tall but thin, not having fully grown into the growth spurt that overtook him six months ago, but he thinks he could do some damage given the opportunity. And if his ribs would stop hurting. Yes, that would be helpful. He shifts slightly, momentarily distracted from thinking about a plan by the fresh flush of pain.

"Alright?" John murmurs again, but now it is a question aimed solely at Sherlock. He sounds concerned and it is odd that this stranger cares about Sherlock, considering the situation they're in. Should not John be more worried about himself?

"I'm fine," says Sherlock. A blatant lie, and he sees John smile.

"You know, you never did tell us your name."

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock," John echoes, his brow furrowing like it's a foreign language he does not understand. He smiles, though, and it makes his face look surprisingly open. "That's an odd name."

"My parents like weird names. They gave my older brother the name Mycroft," says Sherlock. He's not sure why he's sharing this information. "My mother was trying to get pregnant for a while after she had me. She wanted to have a Sherrinford, too."

John chuckles softly. "Sherlock, then. How did you end up here? What did they do to you?"

"Elle told me that my brother sent her to pick me up. I knew it was a lie, of course." There had been so many obvious tells, it was a wonder that she had even bothered to make the attempt. Did she not know Mycroft at all? The last time he and his brother had seen each other, Sherlock had expressed in very clear words what would happen the next time Mycroft had him 'picked up'. He has not seen any of his brother's men since then, though he knows they're still around. "But getting kidnapped seemed like it would be interesting."

"Hang on," Sally says. She's been listening in silence all this time, but now she sits up and stares. "You knew that she was trying to kidnap you and you went along anyway?"

"I was bored."

"You were - what the hell kind of freak are you?" she demands, sounding outraged.

"Sally," Greg says sharply. "That's not going to help."

"But - but seriously!" she sputters. "You willingly chose to get into a car with a stranger because you were _bored_?"

Put like that, it does not sound terribly intelligent. Sherlock presses his lips together into a thin line and frowns at her. It is the look his mother always gives him when he brings home yet another note from the school, and Sally seems to be as affected by it as he always is. He knows she won't understand. Boredom is, it's like having someone slowly drag a razor down the length of his arm only it's in his head. The pain is sweet and silky at first, but before long it progresses into the kind of ache that makes him want to pull his hair out in frustration. He would, too, if that would only make it cease. But it never does. The only cure is something interesting, a puzzle, and Elle had provided him with one. The possibility of physical damage or worse had not really occurred to him until now.

"We all ended up here for different reasons," John says when the heavy silence goes on and on. He looks tired now, like he has a headache, and he keeps shifting his left shoulder as though it pains him. "A woman approached me - said she'd found a girl who looked just like me in the schoolyard, that she was crying for me." His expression goes flat. "I believed her."

"Older sister," Sherlock says under his breath, and John looks at him with wide eyes.

"They used something similar on me," Greg says, stretching his leg out in front of him with a faint grimace. "Only they said it was a lost kid, and could I please take her to NSY because they were from out of town and didn't know where it was. I said yes and followed them without thinking. My da's gonna kill me when he finds out. He's forever telling me not to trust strangers."

Greg is not a policeman's son, Sherlock deduces, though that would be the obvious conclusion to draw from his story. He suspects that Greg's father does work for NSY, possibly as a sketch artist if the fine charcoal dust on Greg's right sleeve is any indication.

"I was playing outside with a mate," Molly says. She's stopped crying now and seems strangely calm. "She went in for a lolly and I stayed outside. Next thing I knew, this man came up behind me and picked me up. I tried to kick him and he just laughed." She sounds almost insulted by this.

"He killed my dog," Sally says, her face twisting, but she keeps it together. "Hit him in the middle of the street and grabbed me when I tried to check him over." She presses her thin shoulders back against the wall and wraps her arms around her belly, like she's simultaneously trying to make herself a smaller target and present an offensive posture. 

Sherlock glances around at them, eyes flicking from child to child, teen to teen, while the facts whirl away at the cogs of his brain. He's accomplished what he set out to do, if only because he no longer feels bored. These children are interesting for all that they are so very common. They've been grabbed for physical attributes, most likely, and in Molly's case probably her age, but they have not fallen apart under the stress. Only Molly has been reduced to tears, and even now in the face of the composure of the rest of them she has managed to stop. She sits there now with a mulish expression on her little face, one that dares anyone to make so much as a wrong step in her direction, and Sherlock thinks - hmm.

"I wonder," John says quietly, "if we'll stay together, or if we'll be separated." His hand tightens fractionally around Sherlock, as though the very idea is intolerable.

"Don't think that way, John. We'll get out of here yet," Greg says.

"You're right," says Sherlock, and Greg looks at him in astonishment. "I believe they will come back at least once more. The chances of my brother giving into their demands is unlikely and I doubt he'll have devoted any resources to finding me." Why would he, after their last encounter? "That means they'll want to send another tape, more proof of what they're willing to do if he does not pay up, and they'll have to do it soon. Their timeline is appallingly short. When she returns, if we're ready - " He sweeps his gaze around the room, imparting the seriousness of the venture. Will they understand? "We will have one opportunity, and only one."

No one speaks for several minutes, long enough for Sherlock's stomach to tighten into unfamiliar knots. Then Sally clears her throat and tosses her braid over one slender shoulder. "I'd like the chance to kick that bastard in the bollocks," she says almost conversationally, jiggling one of her legs. "I only wish that I'd thought to wear my big sister's heels."

"I'm sure you'll get your chance," says John, wincing slightly at the idea. "You can distract her, then."

Sally glances at Molly and chews on her lip. She's obviously considering and rejecting the idea of Molly distracting anyone. Finally, she gives a determined nod. "I'll tell her that I've got to go to the bathroom for personal reasons," she says. "It'll keep her from calling the guy, whatever his name is - Jack, you said?" She looks at Sherlock but doesn't want for him to confirm. "This plan, I like it better than... I'm not sure I'd want to wait around and see what happens when the buyers come." She thrusts out her chin and tilts her head up. 

"Me either," Molly says in a tiny voice. 

Another silence falls, and Sherlock closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. The position with the least amount of pain is sitting straight up while leaning ever so slightly to the side, just enough so that he can feel the warmth of John's body from shoulder to hip to thigh. John's hand is another bright spot of warmth against his shirt. He listens to the sounds of the others - Sally fidgeting, the sound of Greg snoring, Molly singing softly to herself in a thin, wavering voice - and thinks about what might have happened if he had not chosen to go along with Elle. If he had called her out, deduced everything she was then and there, and walked away before she gathered her bearings.

He's wanted to be a consulting detective for a long time, ever since he got his first taste of solving cases with the death of Carl Powers. No one, not even Mycroft, had listened to him, and his mother had scolded him on a regular basis for wanting to go into a profession that she deemed to be far too dangerous for her youngest child. He realizes now that even though he's in the middle of a dangerous situation, the sort that would make Mummy faint if she knew, and has been beat up and is in the process of being sold to god knows who, he's feeling more alive than he had in months. His heart is beating very quickly and his breathing, though regulated, has an audible hitch whenever he allows his thoughts to stray to what is about to come.

This is interesting, exciting, and he wants more.

"Don't fall asleep," John murmurs. In spite of the caution, he sounds like the one who is having difficulty staying awake. When Sherlock glances at him, he sees that John's eyes are heavily lidded.

"I won't," says Sherlock. It's the truth. He has never felt less like sleeping. The very idea of allowing his body to succumb to something so mundane is impossible.

John visibly swallows a yawn. "S'good. Where are you from? What does your brother do that's so important they'd kidnap you?"

"He works for the government. Officially he has a small, unimportant position. Unofficially, Mycroft runs everything. Or he will someday." Sherlock can't give anything more specific than that because he's never bothered to pay enough attention to know. Mycroft's job is boring. He sits behind a desk all day, giving directions and instructions without ever bothering to see anything worthwhile. It is truly a wonder that his brother's brain hasn't completely atrophied from lack of us. Sometimes Sherlock thinks that it still could. "We live outside of London. My parents have a home," he adds, realizing belatedly that he has forgot to answer the first part of John's question.

"You don't think your brother will come?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Would your sister come?" Sherlock fires back.

John blinks at that. "Fair point," he mutters. "I'd like to think that she would if she knew that I'd been kidnapped. Maybe when we were younger, she would have. We were closer then. But lately she's been spending all of her time at parties and she's coming home drunk every weekend... Whenever I try to talk to her about it she says they're just having fun and that I should mind my own business." He sighs and refocuses on Sherlock. "How did you know - you said you thought she was my older sister?"

"A shot in the dark, but a good one. You're not used to being around younger children. You haven't tried to comfort Molly, not even once, but you clearly have caretaker tendencies," Sherlock explains with a pointed glance at the arm resting around his waist. John flushes but does not move, and Sherlock continues, "Then there was the expression your face when you spoke about the fictional girl in the schoolyard. You were angry at yourself not just for believing the tale, but for not being able to clearly pick out the fictional part. The schoolyard. I'd wager to say that your sister rarely spends time there."

"Not anymore," John agrees with a thin smile. "Still, that's brilliant."

Sherlock's cheeks colour faintly, and he is suddenly relieve for the dim, sputtering light which hopefully does not allow anyone else to notice. "I had a 50% chance of being correct," he says. "And besides, that's not what most people say."

"What do most people say?"

"They tend to react with fists, not words," Sherlock says, indicating the first bruise he'd earned when he'd deduced Jack's part in the business.

"Oh, right." John's eyes focus briefly on the bruise, and he frowns. "You should be more careful."

"It's only transport. My body will heal."

"You've got to be well enough to walk out of here," John points out.

"I can walk." Sherlock tenses, as though he planning to get up and prove it, and John's grip tightens immediately to keep him in place. There is no denying the worrying flick of pleasure that steals over him at this reaction.

“Stop: don’t be an idiot.”

“Idiot.” He cocks his head thoughtfully. “I’ve been called several names, but that’s never been one of them.”

John grins. It’s quick and he tries to hide it, but it’s still there. “Clearly no one else knows you well enough, then.”

Strange, how a boy he has only just met a handful of hours ago could say that so confidently. Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly. He wants to know more about John Watson, who seems to be a contradiction wrapped in a truly heinous jumper that should be burned immediately. But even he knows that now is not the time. “You are more correct than you realize,” he says at last.

John doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that and the two of them lapse into silence. Sherlock looks around the room restlessly, absently deducing: Sally’s got two more dogs beside the one that died, Greg has at least one older brother who likes to play rough, Molly likes to paint in her spare time. It’s all useless information that he’ll like delete at a later time. At least John proves to be slightly more interesting: he wants to be a doctor, probably in the emergency room given that he enjoys being under pressure, and in spite of the fact that his family isn’t close he does not mind being close to people.

The minutes tick by slowly and eventually John's head drops onto Sherlock's shoulder. Instead of shrugging him away, Sherlock leans into the weight in spite of the flare of pain from his ribs. Adrenaline keeps him from sleeping even when no one else except for Sally is awake. Like him, she seems to be unwilling or unable to sleep. It's not hard to guess why, in the sputtering light he can just make out the ridges of a bruise around her throat in the shape of a large hand. Too large for a woman, but the exact fit for a man the size of Jack, and he suspects that were Sally to remove her shirt there would be more in telling places that make him feel slightly ill - a feeling he attributes to the pain, of course, and nothing more.

At about midnight the light finally dies, leaving them in darkness. Sherlock is grateful, then, for John's warmth beside him. The minutes move slower until at last, when he judges it to be about half past four, he breathes out, "Sally."

Silence, a little scuffling, and then Sally hammers on the door. Greg and John both came awake with a start and Sherlock winces when John accidentally jolts him in the side. 

"The hell?" John says lowly.

"Shh," Sherlock mutters.

It takes a while for anyone to respond, but in due time they hear Elle shouting, "Knock off that racket!"

"I need the loo," Sally calls back, and it's no hardship to make her voice sound desperate. "Please, I - I really need to go."

"There must be a container in there. Use that."

"It's an emergency. I don't have any... supplies." She injects a subtle undertone of embarrassment into the words. Sherlock's respect rises for her ever so slightly; Sally is an excellent actor. Good enough to make Elle open the door, the torch that shines in blinding them all. John swears and shields both their eyes.

"Alright, no funny stuff," Elle says suspiciously.

"No funny stuff." Sally holds her hands up, spaced evenly apart, and steps forward slowly. She does not look back at them as she exits and the heavy doors swings shut behind her. They're cast back into quiet and dark.

Molly whispers, "What if she doesn't come back?"

"She will," Greg says. "Sally's not like that."

"No, I mean - what if she can't?"

No one has an answer for that. Sherlock closes his eyes and tips his head away. John exhales and says nothing.

Waiting is more difficult this time, the seconds seeming to drag by, and Sherlock feels attuned to every sound. His body is itching to snap into action and this lack of motion is wearing on him in more than one way. John's hand remains a steady, bracing warmth on his hip and that helps to keep him in place when otherwise he might've got up and paced. The lack of light is frustrating, preventing him from deducing anything else about the others, and his mind races aimlessly.

When the door finally cracks open again and reveals Sally standing there alone, Molly actually laughs out loud. She sounds young and childish and shrill. "You did it! Oh, Sally, are you okay?"

Because the torch has just revealed the blood staining Sally's face and clothes, poorly wiped off, and she says too calmly, "I'm fine. She wasn't expecting me to be able to fight back and in the end she didn't do very much. I only had to hit her once or twice before she fell over and didn't get back up. We should hurry, though. I'm not sure where the other two are but I think I heard them moving around."

"Let's go, then." John gets up first before planting his hands under Sherlock's arms and lifting. Sherlock holds his breath as stiff muscles complain vehemently at the movement, gritting his teeth as he gets his feet under him and stands under his own power.

"Behind me," Greg says, accepting the torch from Sally when she hands it over. He goes first, followed by Sally and Molly and then John and Sherlock. It's a blessing in and of itself, to be at the back, because it means that no one can see the quick grin that unexpectedly forces its way across Sherlock's face. This is not boring at all, it's exciting and makes his blood dance and his mind spark in all of the ways that he's been craving.

The five of them file quietly down the hall, shuffling footsteps and shallow breaths not nearly enough to cover the sound of the person – a man, Sherlock can tell by the heaviness of the tread – coming in their direction. Evidently Greg hears it too because he stops, pressing Molly back against Sally, and lifts an arm. When Jack walks around the corner Greg doesn’t hesitate to bash him over the head. Annie screams behind him and that seems to snap Jack out of his stupor; he grabs for Greg and the two of them go down in a heap. John jumps in and Annie turns, not to help, to _run_.

Sherlock catches Sally’s eye and the two of them share the same thought, only Sally edges around the brawling pair while Sherlock leaps straight over them. Pain jolts along his ribs but he ignores it, keeping Annie’s back in sight as Sally draws level with him. The question of who has the gun is answered when there's a crack and something small whizzes over their heads. He stops short, ducking instinctively, and Sally crouches down next to him a moment later. She’s breathing hard but composed, craning her neck in an effort to see where Annie has gone.

Impossible, in the dark, and she says “Don’t." when Sherlock makes to stand, her hand landing on his arm to keep him in place. “It’s not worth it. She’s got a gun and she knows how to use it.”

“But –” 

“Leave it,” she says, sharper now. "It's more important that we all get out of here in one piece. Let the police worry about her."

"The police," Sherlock mutters disdainfully, but he subsides. Sally is warm and they sink together, aligned from shoulder to hip. They sit there for several tense minutes, waiting to see if Annie will come back or shoot at them again. Sherlock's ribs ache, the pain a dull throb that occasionally travels deep and biting, but he says nothing.

A thin beam of light comes around the corner, hitting the ground at their feet, and then John steps around to follow it. He's got several new bruises on his face his lip is split, but he's grinning in relief at seeing them alive. "Thank god," he says emphatically. "We heard the gun go off. I thought that maybe -"

"Not for lack of trying," says Sally. When she gets up it's obvious she's in pain, the way she's moving speaking volumes about an injury she will not complain about. John passes her the torch and steps over to Sherlock, bending down with a faint wince and hauling him to his feet. Sherlock huffs a disagreement at being manhandled and steps away as soon as he is able, wrapping an arm around his waist. John's eyes narrow in his direction, but by now they all have their wounds. 

"Greg and Molly are waiting," John says at last. "Come on, let's go."

Molly cries when she sees that they're okay and Greg pats them both on the shoulder. Sally leads the way out of the building. There's not much around, but the road and forest beyond is a welcome sight indeed. Sherlock doesn't particularly care where they go as long as it's away from where they are. He breaks off from the group, though he doesn't go far: just to the side, where the vehicles were parked. As expected, one of them is gone. That writes Annie off, then. The other is still there, of course, but a quick check reveals that the keys are gone. He straightens up awkwardly and turns, not surprised to see the others standing not five feet away in a half circle.

"What's wrong? Skills when it comes to wiring cars not up to par?" Greg asks.

"I could figure it out, given time."

"Don't bother," says Molly, wiping at her sticky cheeks with determined fingers. "I can do it."

"You can?" Greg says, astonished.

She nods. "My brother showed me how." And she's little enough that she folds easily under the driver's seat, gets Greg to help her pry off the underside of the dash so she can examine the wiring while Sally holds the torch aloft. It doesn't take her long at all, only a handful of minutes before the car is rumbling to life. The engine sputters a couple of times but turns over and Molly smiles victoriously.

Greg helps her out and slides into the driver's seat in her place. "Got enough gas to get us a decent head start," he declares.

Sally gets in the passenger's seat without waiting to see if anyone else wants to claim the position for their own. Sherlock ends up in the back with John and Molly. Greg glances in the rear-view mirror, then looks over his shoulder twice before driving away as though he doesn't fully trust that all of them are actually in the car. And then, just in case, he checks for a third time before he eases his foot down on the pedal. The car lurches forward and he twists the wheel, guiding it across the pavement towards the road.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
